Despre bataie. Si bataie de joc.

Draga redactie,

Sunt deja patru zile de cand am aflat ca ‘Romanii isi mai pot bate nevestele pana in toamna‘.

Recunosc, am intrat in fiecare zi pe site-ul ziarului asteptandu-ma sa nu mai gasesc acelasi titlu. Parca si vedeam o nota de subsol in care v-ati fi explicat decizia editoriala. Poate si cu scuzele de rigoare? Cum ca va asumati ca v-ati ofensat cititorii si mai grav, si neintentionat fireste, poate ca le-ati facut (mai) rau la zeci de mii de femei abuzate de partenerii lor?  Am fost tare debusolata sa vad ca nu v-ati sinchisit nici de comentariile cititorilor. Nici de cele de pe Facebook. E drept ca v-am tot adus cu totii vizualizari, asa ca nu exista publicitate proasta, doar publicitate, nu?

Pana la urma, vreti doar sa va vindeti ziarul, sunt vremuri grele si credeti-ma, o stiu prea bine. Asa ca haideti, ca facem altfel – eu chiar o sa aleg de data asta sa va inteleg, am fost furioasa pe dumneavoastra, dar sunt sigura ca there’s method in your madness.

Asadar, sa ne imaginam procesul creativ.

Aveti doua jurnaliste care urmeaza sa scrie despre o initiativa onorabila de a grabi eliberarea unui ordin de restrictie impotriva agresorului: in loc de 72 de ore sa se faca in mai putin de 24 de ore. Imi imaginez ca jurnalistele nu au avut nevoie sa duca multa munca de lamurire de ce e subiectul asta atat de important, nu?

Sunt sigura ca au tot mentionat cum ca suntem pe locul 1 in UE la numarul de cazuri raportate de violenta in familie, nemaipomenind de cele ramase intre patru pereti. Ah, parca o si vad pe una dintre autoare mentionand chiar statistici recente: ‘avem aici niste date din primele sase luni ale lui 2016. Cica au fost facute 9000 de sesizari la politie de lovire in familie‘. 9000. Din care peste 7500 femei.

Discutii intre colegi pe subiect. Indignare. ‘Cum ma, sa le ia trei zile pentru un ordin de restrictie… Asa ceva…‘ Altcineva isi aminteste cum isi machia prietena cea mai buna. In fiecare zi. Un cap in gura. Corectie. Fond de ten. Fard violet. Ceva glume. ‘Bataie e rupta din rai, mai fata mai! Nu ai aflat?‘, dupa care escaladeaza. ‘Ii dai cu dragoste.‘ Si mai buna. Rasete. ‘Sa-i dam cat mai avem timp, nu? Zic. Da’ asta nu suna rau…’ Titlu: ‘Romanii mai au vreme sa-si bata nevestele pana in toamna.’ Hohote. Da, mai asta-i. Hai, ca asta a fost buna.

Asta e momentul in care sigur cineva ar fi zis: nu, e inacceptabil. Hai, cat e gluma, cat e panarama, dar nu-i chiar asa… ‘O dam nasol.‘ Sau chiar mai complex de-atat, cineva sa se fi trezit sa spuna, chiar daca e clickbait totul zilele astea, cine-s cititorii nostri? Oamenii aia de-si bat nevestele? Daca da, cu atat mai bine, hai sa le zicem sa nu mai faca, nu sa le dam verde. Dar s-a ras. Si stii cum e, daca nu ai umor, mai bine mori. Sau taci din gura.

Articolul se publica. Vindem ziarul. Si informam poporul. In 18 August 2017, sa se noteze, le zicem romanilor cum ca e cu graba la omor. Apar comentariile de la nesaratii aia de pe Facebook care nu inteleg ca tre’ sa mai si facem haz de necaz.

Necazul e ca redactia dumneavoastra nu s-a trezit nici zile mai tarziu sa spuna ca titlul propus:

– ‘Romanii isi mai pot BATE NEVESTELE’ sugereaza ideea ca violenta domestica este tolerata pana la termenul limita ‘pana la toamna’ (ceea ce este fals, Romania avand deja o lege activa nr. 217/2003 pentru prevenirea si combaterea violentei in familie);

– utilizarea de majuscule pentru ‘BATE NEVESTELE’? Ce dracu? Sa ne asiguram ca nu scapa nimanui ce-i de facut – nu exista niciun dubiu ca articolul indeamna la violenta, ceea ce este la polul opus a ceea ce isi propune stirea si o publicatie serioasa (banuiesc?);

– Utilizarea unui titlul cu sens exclamativ: nu numai ca dramatizeaza, dar sugereaza o situatie de panica, de grabire in a savarsi abuzuri fizice direct influentate de un potential termen limita (toamna);

– Chiar daca ar fi fost scris sub apanaj umoristic/pamflet/senzationalist e un subiect mult prea sensibil pentru a tolera o astfel de propunere de titlu;

– O curiozitate proprie: nu e suficient de scandalos ca ordinele de restrictie se elibereaza in 72 de ore? ‘Socant, mori cu zile?’

Draga redactie, mi-ar fi placut ca in scrisoarea pe care ne-ati fi scris-o noua, imediat ce v-ati fi dat seama de gafa, ati fi recunoscut cum ca v-ati tradat cititorii. Ati indemnat la violenta publicul larg si ati discriminat impotriva victimelor printr-o normalizare si intarire a culturii violentei domestice in familie. S-a intamplat ca ati facut caterinca, nu jurnalism.  Ceea ce sunt sigura nu va sta in caracter, nu? Bataia… bataia de joc, zic.

Cu sinceritate,

Oana, o fosta cititoare.

 

 

 

 

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‘A really strong individual voice, original, basically it’s fun writing’, that should be you, my dear Wraportage! References:

  • David Dunkley Gymah, one of the best videojournalists in the UK, the curator-teacher always pushing you to the right questions, not answers. Obsessed with ‘what’s the story’.
  • The other reference is Paul Majendie, spent decades (three!) as a Reuters correspondent, humorous as his colourful shirts that ‘look like curtains’. Possibly, suffering of an ADHD syndrome that never lets you settle for decent or good, but always for better.

Continue reading “Cheers to Wraportage! Writing is sharing.”

The Chronicle of an Immigration Foretold

UKIP’s bad-weather forecast

Let’ s put it into context: how did we get to this ottoman-invasion foresight?  The ‘weather’ warning on Romanian  immigrants in the UK was ushered more than a year ago by Nigel Farage, leader of the UKIP.

As the third popular party in Britain,  The UK Independence Party is known for the euro-skeptical attitude. Mr. Farage supporters drive the crusade of 2017 referendum which would withdraw the monarchy island from the continental EU.

In the meantime, the leader of UKIP had several proposals in keeping his country away from European nomads. Such as a five-year ban on people coming to settle in Britain, after forecasting the flood and the ‘Romanian crime-wave‘ for 2014.

Continue reading “The Chronicle of an Immigration Foretold”

British Myths on Romanians ‘flooding’ the UK

We failed your expectations. I agree. We didn’t ‘flood’ the UK. We only sent a few Romanian raindrops. Two dozens of us more precisely. Such a dry weather now in the UK, right? Let’s see where did Romanians fail to live up to some of the British expectations – you can read some of them in one of my article: The Chronicle of an Immigration foretold.

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Continue reading “British Myths on Romanians ‘flooding’ the UK”

A sabbatical year. A generic way of saying I went to a Master. Nothing special about it. My generic Sabbath: MA degree, me and other 6,000 students from Romania chasing the British dream. Me and other tens of thousands of young journos.

Generic: journo; Trademark?

My generic Sabbath was not a time to rest or to enjoy no-alarm clock days while counting wrinkles, coins and ceiling-sheep. My own, personal ‘Sabbath’ is about counting failure, #tryagain-s, THE ‘again’-s, to count words to write, books never read, things never heard about, ‘Aha!’ moments. The ‘I-am-not-there’ home-moments. The differences, mostly minuses and from time to time, achievements. Oh, and in the end of each month also counting Penny-coins! But about being rich when you’re broke I’ll tell you some other time, this year.

My Sabbatical year started with me wanting to become more of a British Journalist. You know the ‘reporters cross the line’ thing, no flat earth news and a clean BBC line/linen. This means I was chasing the journo British prototype that I had in mind as being the ultimate model of reporter-producing line. I, myself, wanted to become a product. A British product of journalism. So: wear a shirt, be blonde (maybe?!), short hair-cut, serious tone, a bit dry, accurate, fast, smart, bold. From camera looks to journalistic guidelines. I  was almost  working on a factory of book-made journalists based in London, Harrow. Generic production. Until…

Until I had the ‘Ahaaaa!’ moment hearing Dean Sackton, a creativity Guru, saying at Harrow Conversations: ‘I need individuals. Assy, weird, arrogant, whatever! individuals. I am sick of generics! Generic people!’. I remembered why I came here in the first place. Not to become just another journo, another reporter, the ‘another one’. But: the one. You put a lot more of an effort to become as someone else,  the generic else, than yourself, your individual self. Shortly: don’t bullshit yourself with wannabe, get real with what you really are.

The Sabbatical year for me is for learning the generics and looking for the trademark. Not just another one. But the ‘one’ thing that makes you special. As we say in Romania: ‘a fi mai cu moţ’, as in ‘having something on the ball’ or as French would say ‘le je ne sais quoi’, the x-factor.

The raw material for my individual self would be that I like details to build the huge picture, I try to write as I speak and I speak as I think, I exorcise dullness and praise simplicity, I love people and stories and people-stories. I am not still water, as one of my colleague would say, I am sparkling water. Extreme feelings. Love it to death or drop it for life.

Shortly: a trademark makes you that ‘arrogant’ to think you can make it when statistics and your rubbish demon say it’s a closed road. Well, I might as well give it a try, you devilish doubter, because my trademark is:… Je ne sais quoi, YET. But I will find it out. Let us all meet on this street where we all quit this job of being a ‘bunch’ or ‘alike’ or ‘amid’. Let’s all meet in this street of I don’t know where am I heading to, but I know what I don’t want to.  Or what I’m not: a generic.

N.B. In my defence I have to add that I was obsessed with my ‘moţ’ (meaning a little girl’s pony tail) when I was in kindergarden. I might not be the one with the x-factor, but I am not gonna work on a factory of me-like-you’s. So let’s spend Sabbath looking for the x. (NOT the ex).

The factory is closed.

I only trade manufactured pieces of me. Not to be found anywhere else on the market.

The Oan(a).

  • I admit, I would cheat on Mondays with Fridays. Anytime.
  • I admit, I had my MonDieu-s.
  • I admit, I had my communication gaps on Monday mornings.
  • I admit, I had my mourning mornings on Mondays.

How I never hated Mondays

Still, I never genuinely hated Mondays. I simply loved my job and apparently, she loved me back. Each and every bloody, sweaty 25 hour-working day for over 1227 days. And still counting.

Coffee (can I have a 2 litre bottle of it?), the two-wheel open-air ride and stories to tell. Write. Record. Or film. That’s what I call a hell of a Monday! Sorry, a heaven of a Monday, I meant.

N.B. No, I don’t wear the I  ❤ Mondays T-shirt. It’s like a UKIP tee. You could risk your like if you meet a right-wing morning-skeptic. 

Eco-friendly to ‘Hostile environments’

Eco-friendly to ‘Hostile environments’

by Oana Marocico

BBC: definitely not a hostile environment. At least, once you pass the ‘airport’-like security gates. Sesame open…! ‘Sesame’ was in fact the one-day training for Working in Hostile Environments #BBCWHE (BBC College of Journalism).

Five-minute tourist astonishment. It wasn’t The Great Wall of China. Or the  leaning Tower of Pisa. None of the world’s ten miracles. For journalists, the young – naive – wanna be – future to be – news junkies – curious minds – achievers and day dreamers, this was itself… Mecca.

I could almost hear, in my quiet insight, a gospel choir singing ‘Hallelujah’. (I can’t believe I just admitted this; n.b. to self: no more concerts out loud of your inner embarrassing chorus).

Armstrong-journalists' mission to Moon
Armstrong-journalists’ mission to Moon

After my ‘musical premiere’ in BBC, I was back in my reporter’s boots and attitude. Pen and notebook, ready to become a twitter stenographer. ‘No service’ mode got me a dry nib. So, I listened and listened and made a list.

A to do list ‘In order to become a journalist’ covering world’s nightmares. Let’s start day-dreaming of reporting nightmares. Floods. Tsunami. Wars. In order to accomplish your mission to Moon-journalism just to see Earth’s dark side, you’d have to:

  • no, not simply come dancing. Come running! If  you want to be a reporter, be fit. Fit for running and carrying equipment weighted in stones. River stones.
  • show initiative! ‘Don’t wait for £700 to pay for a hostile environments training, just take the emergency rooms.’
  • be courageous. ‘It’s not a job for chickens.’
  • expect to die. ‘This is a job that can get you killed.’
  • prepare for a PTSD. No, it’s not a short form for promotion. You’ll soon find out it’s a diagnosis: post traumatic stress disorder. Keep this in mind when your mind will be hassled by killings.
  • be passionate! ‘You don’t get paid enough to get a PTSD.

It’s fine I don’t expect to get rich. I’ll die trying anyway. Trying to become a hard-core journalist at the core of the world. Why do it? Because I feel like running against the wind. Towards the direction everyone seems to be running from.